


from my rotting body, flowers shall grow

by battyboy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, Biting, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Body Worship, Dubious Ethics, George Washington is a Dad, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, John just wants to bang this zombie ok, Laf just wants to protect his people, Like I stayed up until 3 AM and 2 AM respectively ', M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Religion Kink, Samuel Seabury is a good boy who deserves all the love, Star!Crossed Lovers, Survival Horror, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole, Zombie Hunters, Zombie!Alex, Zombie!Sex, flowery language, lmao yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 09:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12861543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battyboy/pseuds/battyboy
Summary: Alexander Hamilton lives a meaningless sort of half-life as a reanimated corpse. He occasionally receives flashes of a past life, all featuring a beautiful young man he comes to worship like a god. When he gets the opportunity to save this man's life, reunite with him, it is as if heaven has come to his blackened world. But can a corpse really fight his base instincts? And for how long?((The Hamilton zombie-AU you never knew you needed, complete with weird zombie sex, moral disasters, and John being the precious lamb we all know and love him to be.))





	from my rotting body, flowers shall grow

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the AMAZING work of the YouTuber Mush Roomie. I've been obsessively watching animatics in the last few weeks, and the minute I saw her "Lams" animatic to The Zombie Song, I was hit with a WILD wave if inspiration. Literally, my ass is in the honors college and takes seventeen credits and I gave up sleeping two nights in a row during finals week just so I could write this.
> 
> Link to the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZXMZmrQNJ8
> 
> Though my story does not end the same way their video does, it is still an AMAZING work of art that everyone should have the pleasure of watching!!

He dimly recalls a life Before.

_A summer’s day -- the curliest hair, a ponytail? -- freckles across brown skin like God had blessed the boy with stars and wished everyone to see -- and then the darkness._

He receives flashes like this sometimes. Less that a second apiece, little bits of a life. He sees Him in most of these memories, the man with curls and freckles, pale brown skin and a ponytail. He sees Him often. More of His life than his own, really.

Unfortunately, he can never focus on these images for long. The Hunger returns -- as it always does -- and brings with it an insatiable need. The Hunger feels like a word from Before. Monster. It feels like a monster in his core, clawing him and rending him in two. A monster with needs so base, so inhuman, it forces him to...to...satiate it. When he does subdue the Monster, he retreats into the images of Him. As he tears throats with his teeth, reaches into bodies slick with gore for their soft parts, stuffs his mouth with their screams -- he escapes. He cannot chose what flash will present itself.

The most common when he feeds the Monster is a different sort of hunger. A base need that pools in the pit of his stomach, makes muscles long forgotten arise and harden, fills his head with memories. _The dark column of a throat bared to him -- teeth sinking into freckled shoulders -- breathy moans -- “Fuck, Alexander, I love you, please!” -- the feeling of sinking deep into another --_

And once the screaming has stopped, he often finds himself staring at his own gore-streaked hands, feeling as if he is missing an integral part of himself.

It is, he thinks, the Hunger that begins the whole wretched thing. He is standing aimlessly, swaying slightly, in front of a...a...

 _Window -- storefront_ , the Before murmurs somewhere in his head.

He is standing in front of a...window...an empty storefront, looking in. Or rather, looking at himself. What he sees, he does not fully comprehend. Himself. The idea of...him. He.

_“Fuck, Alexander, I love you, please!”_

He. Alexander. He is called Alexander, he realizes. He knows this with a sort of a certainty. He is -- or was, perhaps -- Alexander. So Alexander looks at himself in the window of the empty storefront. He sees a being, somewhat short, skin pale brown. Dark hair pulled back in a...ponytail...hm. A muddy part of his mind wonders how his hair has stayed in place throughout all of the Monster’s feedings. There are other things he sees that he wishes not to comprehend. Though his sight is murky and the window is dirty, cracked...

He is missing an eye. It’s a terrible mess of blood, this hole in his head -- long dried and crusted over. He is missing a large chunk of his cheek. Through the gore and shredded skin, he can see the inner workings of his jaw. Teeth. Yellowed and filled with unnamable gristle, but his teeth all the same. His neck is lacerated quite badly, judging by the scabs and dried blood. There are rudimentary stitches in this wound. He does not understand why. One hand is missing the thumb -- there are teeth marks where this digit once was. He cannot see his wounds under his clothes, though he is sure they exist. Clothes.... He is wearing a sort of a soft shirt -- faded and blue -- and tight pants -- black. The blood from the Monster’s feedings don’t show up as easily on the darker colors.

Alexander likes this.

He stares at himself, not processing, but perhaps contemplating, for hours. The sky grows hot, then colder. A biting wind wails through this quiet street.

 _Old Town_ , the Before offers up.

_Two hands, both whole and intact, holding one another -- rushing down the near-empty sidewalk in the autumn -- laughing -- breath making clouds in the cold air -- “The shops are closing soon, Alexander, hurry!” -- “We can visit Old Town any day of the week, you know! We wouldn’t have to run if we went tomorrow!” -- “Live in the moment, my love! We’re here now!” -- eyes rising to the sky -- trees full and bright with leaves in all God’s colors -- a sky gray as slate --_

Alexander blinks. Never has a flash been this long before. Never has he seen such clear images of Him.

He has been on this street before. He turns slowly and sees a being like him ambling down the street towards him. A nice street. Wide. The trees are all bare now, and grass grows from the cracked sidewalk, but it is still a nice place. Quiet. Most of the storefronts have been ransacked. Broken glass glints in the low light of late afternoon. The being like him wanders closer, closer, until she is directly in front of him. She is soft in a beautiful way, eyes wide set and angular. Her long black hair is in snarls and he sees as she approaches her throat is ripped wide open. Her pale blue dress is near-black with gore.

She steps closer, narrows her eyes, cocks her head. Alexander is mesmerized.

He and those like him do not often acknowledge one another.

She makes a rattling noise deep in her mangled throat, eyes suddenly wide. She points at him. The gesture that is so oddly -- oddly...something. The word escapes him. She clenches her fists and snarls at him, points again. She points to herself.

He opens his mouth and feels the biting wind whistle between his teeth. He closes his mouth.

Who is she? There is the smallest pang of familiarity he feels towards her. She tires of pointing and takes his hand, the one with all five fingers. She lays the hand on her cheek and smiles. He quirks the unmarred side of his face into the best approximation of a smile he can manage. They stay like that for time immeasurable in the dying light.

Suddenly, rapidfire footsteps break them apart. Her eyes go glassy and her mouth forms into a hideous snarl. Her Monster has awoken.

There is a man sprinting down the street, pursued by others like them. He holds an object -- baseball bat, the Before murmurs. Alexander can hear his gasping breaths echoing on the empty storefronts. He can smell the sour stench of fear. And he can see through his muddy vision...

Tight curls drawn back in a ponytail. Freckles and pale brown skin.

_Him._

Alexander lurches towards Him, moaning incomprehensibly. A different sort of Monster fills him, then. One that lives not in his gut, but in his chest. Some sort of urgent beast, needy and desperate and grasping. He cannot put a name to this thing he is feeling, only knows that his shambling steps cannot go fast enough. He must get to Him. He must get to the object of his memories, the only thing that has lit up this half-life he stumbles through. He must...must...protect Him.

The man stops abruptly, spotting Alexander and the being like him. He glances jerkily back at the others chasing him. Five of them. Alexander and the other make seven. His breaths come rapidly He bounces on the balls of his feet. He readies the bat, pulling back, and Alexander bellows.

A wordless roar that trumpets off the trees and stores and sidewalk. A noise so deep and primal it stops the ones like him in their path. The man finally looks at him.

He falls to his knees screaming.

“ALEXANDER!”

This snaps the others from their brief daze. They close in on Him.

Usually, when Alexander commits great acts of violence, his mind takes mercy on him by giving him snatches of memory. He is Alexander’s only solace in these times. But now, with the owner of freckles like stars in front of him...there is no need for a merciful mind. He feels each throat ripped out with his own teeth, every gut clawed into. Every limb torn from body with the ease of shredding cloth. He feels the sludge-like blood splatter his face and he revels in it. He tackles one of them -- woman, the Before offers unhelpfully -- and grabs her by the hair. This is not the one he shared a moment with. This is some dirty thing, barely recognizable as... _woman_. He slams her head into the ground over and over again until her skull is a mess of pulpy brain matter and shards of bone.

Sickened, he rises and looks around wildly. The street is filled with steaming entrails and smashed skulls. His face is pockmarked with thick, black blood. He is shaking. The five that were tailing Him are no more, but...the...woman in the pale blue dress is -- is --

The freckled man is holding her by the arms, sobbing, “Eliza, Eliza stop!” over and over.

The name clicks in Alexander’s mind.

_Three sisters, bright as the morning sun -- one sweet and coy, bookish, darling -- one a spitfire feminist, whip-smart and always thinking -- the other only fifteen years old, desperate to be taken seriously, funny, uptight, sunny disposition -- the bookish girl always loved him -- desperately mooned over him, but how could he love her when John --_

John.

“ _JOHN_!” he thunders, and nearly pitches over in his attempt to reach Him. John. His John. The man he loved -- loves -- with his entire being, dead or alive.

Memories flood into his mind in an overwhelming, never ending stream as he body slams Eliza. A woman he once considered marrying when they were young and foolish. A woman who he spent afternoons with drinking tea and reading quietly. A woman whose friendship got him through dark days of depression and anxiety.

A woman who is trying to kill his John.

They reach the ground and he snaps his teeth in her face. “NO!” he shouts, his voice like a rusty knife in his throat. She rattles desperately, her eyes gaining back a second of clarity before going cloudy once again. He straddles her chest and grabs her by the hair. He does not want to do this. Alexander shakes. “No,” he says. “No.” Her head snaps back and forth like a ragdoll, but her eyes have no clarity in them. She bucks against his weight like a rabid animal. Alexander can hear his John sobbing behind them.

“Alex...”

It is the vulnerability in John’s voice that makes him slam her head into the ground the first time. He hears a sharp crack and her eyes clear suddenly. She tries to say something, fails. Tears leak from her eyes and, screaming, he rams her skull into the ground until she is still.

“Alex...”

He stands up slowly and shuffles towards John. He drops to his knees.

“John...I remember.”

They are locked in an embrace on their knees, the both of them sobbing incoherently, when the other member of John’s party find them.

It is Lafayette who finally pries the apart. His eyes are black with anger and horror. “What the _fuck_?!” he screams. “John--”

John stands, dragging Alexander up with him. He holds him tightly, back to trembling front. John’s black turtleneck is covered in Alexander’s gore, but his smile is so wide it’s like to split his face in two. “Laf,” he finally weeps, “Laf, I _found_ him. They -- they were chasing me, and I -- I thought Old Town would be empty.” He sniffled. “It’s cleared, usually. But he was just standing here! With...with Eliza and -- he saved me. He killed the others.” He gestures to the cold piles of viscera around them, the dismembered bodies. “Laf, it’s Alex.”

Hercules Mulligan, a beanie pulled down low over his curls and a flannel shirt wrapped tight around his bulging muscles, levels a double barrel shotgun at the two of them. “John,” he says calmly, choosing each word carefully, “you’ve had a bad scare. You’re still in mourning and that’s alright.” He speaks in a low, inviting tone, as if he’s trying to talk down an unstable child. “Alex and Eliza are dead, son. It’s been a year. You know that. I know you do. Step away from the Corpse. It could attack you at any second.” His voice is friendly and warm.

John frowns. “Alex, say something.”

Alex makes eye contact with Herc and then Laf. He waves a four-fingered hand and brushes back a strand of hair to reveal his missing eye. “I -- hi.” His throat his still raw. He’s been weeping hard for perhaps an hour, screaming before that.

Lafayette looks as if he’s going to piss himself.

“Manbun,” Alex murmurs. He gives a half-smile and points to Lafayette’s hair, pulled up in a messy bun atop his head. John grips him tighter, his hands digging sharp into his hipbones. They are all silent. Where the fuck do they go from here? Apparently he has been one of these...Corpses for a year. He has just killed Eliza for good. He feels strangely numb about this. There are memories filling in the gaps in his mind, but other areas are still dark as night. How did he die? How did Eliza die? The other sisters, are they still alive? Who in his party is alive, for that matter? It was the sisters, Herc and John and Laf, the fatherly Washington, George and Sam who liked to pretend they weren’t a couple...Maria...Aaron...Thomas the asshole, his lackey James. Washington always said they were an unusually large party, he recalls, but he’d promised to protect them all. He has many questions, but opts to silent. He leans into John and tilts his head to place a kiss on the dark throat behind him. Only one side of his mouth functions fully, but he supposes the sentiment is what matters.

The others stand there sputtering. There is not much one can say in a situation like this one. Lafayette looks furious, Herc looks deeply saddened. At last, Alexander finds it in himself to speak. “Night...” He gestures to the darkness that has fallen heavy around them. “Unh...s’dangerous.” He forces this last bit out through gritted teeth. His throat feels as violated as Eliza’s.

A twinge of guilt. Regret. These more...human emotions are slow to return. Other than the brief, insane fits of passion, he feels curiously numb about most else. Where is his love for Herc and Laf? He recalls camping trips with these men, drinking beer in dive bars, studying until dawn, protesting and canvassing. These memories are ripe for the picking, but the emotion attached to them feels muted at best. It’s John. It’s all John. He feels a wild streak of possessiveness hit him like lightning and bites back a snarl. If he wants John, he has to deal with these two.

“We need to get inside,” John insists. “Alex is right.”

Hercules is struck dumb. Lafayette finally finds words. “You can’t be serious. We’re not taking him with us.”

“What do you mean? He’s back.”

“John...he’s...a Corpse. He’s -- it’s not a human anymore.”

“He saved my life!” John shouts. His grip once again tightens on Alexander’s hips. Wicked, wicked thoughts. “He’s okay now! He can talk! He loves me!” There are tears streaming down his beautiful face.

_Alexander wants to kill anyone who would make his John cry._

“Okay, I know, calm down, _mon ami_. I’m on your side. I don’t know why that happened, okay? Maybe it’s some kind of residual memory thing -- short-term -- something. It’s -- he’s not Alex. He’s a Corpse who talks. Maybe he copies speech. I do not know...” His accent thickens as he grows more and more nervous. Alexander can smell his desperation, a sickly sweet stench. “Whatever! It doesn’t matter! Let’s go. You know the Corpses come out at night.”

“No,” Alexander grunts. “John, no.”

“I’m not leaving without him.”

Herc palms the back of his neck and at last finds words. He draws Lafayette away from Alexander and John, and the two of them converse in heated whispers. John draws Alexander away from him at last and holds him at arm’s length. “God is real,” he whispers. “I prayed every night that you’d come back to me. I love you. I love you, I love you.”

“I love you,” Alexander murmurs.

“Oh, God, Alex. What did they do to you?” he says, gently tipping his chin. He spots the stitched laceration on Alexander’s neck and offers a small, watery smile. “Do you -- do you remember how you got that?”

Alexander shakes his head. “It’s...slow.” He gestures to his head, mangled as it may be. “Memories. Slow.” He pauses, considering. Knowledge of his past life will serve him well if he is to convince Herc and Lafayette to trust him. Perhaps this will be upsetting -- but it will enable him to stay with John. “How...?” He makes a sweeping gesture to his body. “How...?”

John grimaces. “My love...I was hoping you’d wouldn’t ask.”

Alexander stokes John’s cheek in lieu of a response. He lowers his voice and tells this story to the ground: “We were out on a supply run -- you, me, and Eliza. You’d never let me go anywhere alone.” He smiles at the cracked street. “We--”

_An autumn day -- stores are looted -- the world is aflame, but they are happy as they can be -- Eliza watches he and John laugh with sad eyes -- “Peggy is sick,” she snaps at last, “stop joking around and help me!” -- they sober up, climb into a ruined pharmacy -- they are not hopeful to find anything -- a backroom stocked full of medicine -- Eliza’s happy squeals -- the noise draws out a nest of Corpses -- one heads straight for John -- he does not think, his mind is white with fear -- but he leaps in front of John -- teeth at his neck, ripping and snarling -- he screams and screams -- Eliza swinging wildly with a machete -- John with his trusty baseball bat -- he blacks out -- back at the apartment they’re staying in -- stitches and alcohol -- he’s burning up from the inside out -- screaming “JOHN, IT HURTS, MAKE IT STOP, PLEASE!” -- “John, that won’t work! You’re wasting supplies! He’s dead!” -- and then a new sort of blackness before the Monster takes over and he rips out Eliza’s throat --_

“Oh, God,” Alexander rasps. He has been responsible for Eliza’s death twice now, responsible for saving the love of his life twice. John’s God is a malicious one, then. Hercules and Lafayette turn around, draw John away and exchange a few whispered words with him. John nods and returns to him, smiling wide.

“We’re golden, my love,” he says.

The three men walk -- Alexander limps -- down the wide street. They force Alexander and John in front, to “keep an eye on the Corpse.” He finds he doesn’t mind much. It’s a beautiful night to be...well, not quite alive. The night is chilly and the sky is filled with stars. Stars like freckles. The unsullied side of his face rises, just slightly. There is a fat moon hanging low in the sky. Alexander sniffs the air periodically, warning them away from side streets full of Corpses. Herc accepts his directions with grace -- a brusque sort, but grace all the same. Laf snarls each time Alexander opens his mouth. The wicked feeling rises in him once again. A memory arrives unbidden -- he was a motormouth once upon a time. He drove his friends near-mad with his endless talking.

“Manbun,” he grunts softly.

He can almost see Laf tensing behind him. “What the fuck did you say?” he snaps.

“You still -- you care -- your hair,” he stutters out, grinning triumphantly. “Manbun.” He turns around and stops walking. “Proud of -- it.”

Herc cracks a smile. “Maybe it is our Alex after all,” he chuckles. “He did always rip on you about your hair, Laf.”

“Shut the fuck up and keep walking,” the Frenchman growls. “The others probably think we’re dead.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence. Alexander can smell Lafayette seething behind him -- it’s a rancid scent, anger. He squeezes John’s hand with his own, draws close to the man. “Think,” he rasps, “infections happen -- from --” He draws in a rattling breath, making John chuckle. “From sex?” He growls this last bit and John turns red from head to toe.

“Easy, Alex,” Herc cautions, “not too close. Hold his hand, fine, but no teeth near the body.”

“Yessir,” Alexander bites out, giving the night in front of him a mocking salute. Herc barks out a laugh. Alexander feels so...correct in this moment. The Before and the now have collided, he finally has Him. The Monster is quiet today. What more could a Corpse want from life? He snickers, decides to keep talking, if only to make Lafayette angry. “Who’s -- left? Washing-- ton?” He feels a dim sort of attachment to this name.

“Yes, Father’s alive,” Lafayette answers bluntly. “Eliza is dead. You killed her, remember? Maria killed herself a month ago. James got shot by raiders.”

“So that leaves Angelica, Peggy, Thomas, Washington, George and Sam. Aaron...we’re a little smaller than we were, love,” John says softly. Alexander nods. Finally, they reach an apartment building in the industrial district. The place is filled with empty factories like loom like ghosts. A river rages behind the oddly-placed apartment complex, and train tracks lie in front of it. One would get little peace living here -- grinding machinery, rattling trains, an ever-flowing river. It was a part of an effort to...to...gentrify, that’s the word. Gentrify the industrial district, push out the homeless and poor who lived in shantytowns by the river. There was even talk of rerouting the train so the rich whites who lived here could sleep easier, Alexander remembers. He’d been furious, then, though he feels nothing looking at the brick building now. The four of them enter the apartment by wedging a metal door. The lobby is entirely plush carpet. The furniture, some sort of bourgeois-modern-art mix, is ripped to shreds and toppled over. The glass walls of the lobby are streaked with blood. And the stairs that lead up to the apartments have been bashed to splinters. The wooden boards lie in the lobby, on top of the mess of stuffing and shredded carpet.

“We’re back!” Herc calls. “The three of us! Uh, can y’all come to the hole?”

The hole, Alexander surmises, is the gaping maw of the empty stairwell. A small, pretty face pops up, pale brown skin and curls, full lips. She looks down at them, grinning. “Watcha bring me, Handsome Herc? Somethin’ for my birthday?” Her eyes catch on Alexander.

She screams.

Peggy’s wails draw the others to the edge of the empty staircase, seven sets of eyes staring down in unmasked disbelief. No one speaks -- until each person begins to speak at once.

Angelica: “Did you -- is that Alexander’s...dead...body?”

Aaron: “John, what the fuck have you done?”

Thomas: “I told y’all he was coming unhinged! They indulged his craziness!”

Washington: “Boys, why is there a Corpse in here?”

Sam: “W-what?”

George: “WHAT THE FUCK?! GET THAT THING OUT OF HERE.”

At last, Peggy. “Johnny,” she says softly, once the others have gotten their screaming out of the way, “honey, why is Alexander down there? He’s long-gone by the looks of him.”

Alexander squeezes John’s hand once, lets it go. He draws his hands up in front of himself in a sign of surrender. “Hi,” he says. “Uhn...I’m -- back?”

This draws in a new wave of shouts and chaos. They have never seen a Corpse speak, they’ve missed him, it’s a miracle, they distrust him, what the fuck is happening? He lets their shouts wash over him, unbothered. John is all he can think of. His beautiful, sensitive, sweet, flawless John. He _worships_ him.

_Fuck God._

All he needs is John.

A rope is finally lowered through the hole -- Laf places his foot on a knotted portion, holds tightly to another, and he is drawn up and away. Alexander supposes Herc is guarding them, making sure he does nothing wrong. The three of them stand there in silence, pondering, confused. Hushed conversation goes on above them, whispered shouts and frantic snapping -- one voice rises above the rest: Washington.

There was a time he called this man Father.

More of a father than he, Lafayette, and John had ever had. He’d adopted them...in his own way. His dear wife was infertile -- they’d never gotten around to a surrogate. And so these three scrappy twentysomethings, touchy and frustrated and yearning to belong, had become their children.

“We’ve got to clean you up,” John says at last. “You’re a mess. We could probably -- I’m sure we’ve got clothes around here somewhere. I mean, there’s not a lot that I can do about...” He gestures helplessly to Alexander’s missing eye, the mess of gore and pus there. “Do you remember how that happened?”

Alexander sighs. Once again, memories are slow to form. He remembers being shoved out on the street, John screeching behind him, a door slammed and then the Monster rising. Others tore at him, he hazily recalls, though he did not the feel the pain. A hand clawing at his cheek, rending it wide open. Sharp, slashing, talon-like nails puncturing his eye, tearing it out of his head. He’s unsure how he came to be missing a thumb.

“Just...others. Fights.”

“You never could stop fighting,” John says fondly, cupping his cheek. He pulls back awkwardly. There is a choice to be made -- accidentally sink his fingers into the eyeless void, or cup a torn-open jaw and thumb at teeth.

God, Alexander wants to kiss him. He doesn’t know much about the spreading of the virus -- he knows it spreads through bites. Is it the saliva, then? Some sort of a venom in the teeth? Infection? Bodily fluids in general? He’s never considered this. It’s not as if Corpses have much energy to ponder on the causes of their condition.

He comes back from the soft, considering place in his head when he feels a damp rag gently probing at his eye. He’s unsure where it came from, or how long he’s been lost in his thoughts. He stands still as John wipes away a year’s worth of grime and blood. This rag is quickly replaced with another, wiping at his shredded cheek, then his neck wound. The raging argument is still going on upstairs.

His perception of things softens a bit. Time slows. He is unsure how long he stands there letting John clean his wounds. He faintly feels bandages applied to his hand, his eye. John’s hands flutter about his face before realizing he cannot cover Alexander’s entire jaw. He tunes out the voices upstairs, raises a hand and stokes John’s cheek.

“I -- remembered,” he says. “Flashes -- of you. Always.” He wishes he could articulate the depth of emotion he feels for this man. The worship, his entire reason for carrying on in the miserable half-life of a Corpse. How the Hunger could never truly rule him, not when the visions of Him saved him from the base monstrosities he was forced to commit. Instead, he draws him closer and closer --

“Hey!” Hercules shouts. “Stop that!” He marches over to them and grabs Alexander by the back of his shirt. He yanks him back. Herc is a tall man, and strong, with no problem lifting Alexander into the air. He marches to the other side of the lobby. “Y’all couldn’t keep your hands off each other when you were alive, son.” Still holding on to Alexander, he rummages around in the large pile of wood that once the stairs. “We grabbed some -- it was a while ago, though -- ah!” He lets go of Alexander, finally, and draws out a dog collar and leash. “Okay, this is a little degrading, but you’ll have to be leashed if you’re going to be with us.”

Alexander considers this near-comical proposition. What’s next, a muzzle? He offers no objection as Hercules clips the spiked collar around his neck and attaches the chain leash to it.

“Alex, we were always friends,” Herc says. “I loved you like a brother. I’m gonna try to convince them to let you stay. If you can control yourself, maybe we can figure somethin’ out for you.” He leans in quickly. “John has been dead without you. He keeps running off alone -- Laf and I think he’s trying to kill himself. Bring him back to us.”

Alexander nods. The curious numbness he has felt towards this man begins to melt. A vague sense of fondness settles in his chest. Herc hands the leash over to John, who has wandered over to them. The three of them peer up through the hole. “Hey!” Alexander hollers. The arguing suddenly stops. “I’m -- safe. Leashed!”

Slowly, eight sets of eyes look down at him. Angelica snorts. “Oh, my God.”

“That’s some BDSM shit,” Thomas mutters loud enough for everyone to hear him. “Coupla queers on a leash -- one’s a Corpse. This day couldn’t get any weirder.”

Washington waves a hand for quiet. “Son,” he says to Alexander, “we all know you. We all loved you. We’ve mourned you, and now you’ve been brought back to us. It seems like you comprehend and remember most things.” He palms the back of his neck. “You’re loved here, but you must understand our hesitance. We’ve been running from Corpses for three years and you’ve been one up until today.”

“What Father is saying,” Laf says icily, “is that you can stay. The leash is a good start.”

“We’re going to have you stay in the lobby for now, son. We’ll collect you in the morning and reconvene. John,” Washington says firmly, “come up now.”

John nearly seizes at the idea of leaving him, Alexander notices. He is pleased. He gently strokes John’s hand. “Go,” he says softly. Washington’s eyes gleam and Alexander bites back a wicked smirk.

He cares for some of these people. Perhaps once upon a time he cared for all of them. Now, however, John is all that matters. He will do whatever it takes to stay with John, lie, manipulate, kill them all without blinking.

Even wear a leash.

And so he sits in the lobby of the empty apartment building, his mind hazy and slow like honey. He passes the hours idly -- he has no need for sleep anymore. He is comforted by John’s presence upstairs. Lafayette and Thomas had very conspicuously drawn the rope up through the hole after they’d lifted John to the second floor. He lets his mind wander to his more carnal pursuits with John.

_Kissing him hard and needy -- biting his lip until it bleeds -- lapping at the coppery taste -- biting bruises into his neck -- sinking to his knees and taking his cock into his mouth -- licking at the head -- sucking tight and wet -- the taste of his release, bitter-salty -- John’s groans as he works him open -- teasing him until he cries -- sinking deep into the tight heat of him --_

He blinks awake, rock-hard and full of sweet desire. All he wants is John. He waits, hands shaking, occasionally palming at the crotch of his tight black pants. At dawn, John sneaks down the rope and embraces him. They stay in an embrace for as long as Alexander can endure. He grinds into the taller man, groaning for some relief.

John quickly pulls away. “My love, I want this as badly at you do. God, I’ve missed you.” He sees John bite back a moan as Alexander grinds into him more forcefully. “Love -- the others, the infection--”

“Fuck -- them,” he growls, gripping John’s arms. “Won’t bite. Won’t break -- skin.”

“Jesus Christ,” John mutters softly. He takes Alexander’s chain and tugs it sharply. They move to a corner of the lobby where the carpet is mostly intact. No discarded lumber or dog leashes to be found. There is a large, stiff-backed couch that has been turned on to its side, providing them with a barrier from prying eyes. The two of them stumble to a stop and sink to their knees. The couch hides them completely. John surges forward to straddle Alexander’s hips, grabs at his blue shirt and rips it right off of him. The tearing noise is monumentally loud in this small space, as if Alexander’s snicker and John’s answering snort. Sleepy murmurs are heard upstairs. Alexander shrugs off the remains of the bloody shirt. He has not scene his bare chest since he was turned. It’s surprisingly free of lacerations, just pale. He tugs John’s shirt over his head and traces the freckles he so loves. They’re everywhere, on his cheeks, his shoulders, his chest. John grabs him by the hips, grinds their clothed erections together. Electricity shoots through Alexander’s vein. God, it’s been so long. With last night’s waking dreams and the sheer length of time since he’s gotten off, he knows he won’t last long.

John moves his hips beautifully -- sweet friction. He grits his teeth and claws at Alexander’s hips. “God, I love you,” he whispers breathlessly. Alexander’s brain is whiting out, but he longs to close the distance between them, to kiss filthy and hungry, to sink his teeth into John’s neck, bite down, shake his head like a dog worrying a bone, rip out his throat--

He comes hard suddenly, groaning with equal parts horror and pleasure. His vision is blurred, his might slow. As he comes back to himself, he nearly bites through his lip at the thought of facing the others with ruined pants. If he must do that, then so must John! He shoves the taller man off of him, then, claws open the button of his jeans. He grabs his stiff length with one hand and cups his cheek with the other. He jerks him roughly, murmuring what filth he can manage in John’s ear. Broken, rasping growls: “Gonna fuck you -- fill -- you.” He gasps for breath. “ _Tear -- you -- apart._ ”

John spills, keening, over his fist. They hold each other for a few precious moments before reality sets in.

“What the fuck are we going to do about your shirt?” John giggles. “And your pants, for that matter?”

Alexander shrugs. He is lost in a haze of pleasure. Nothing can hurt him here. Nothing is wrong with the world. He lets John tug his baggy shirt over his head. It hangs down around his thighs, which are mangled just a bit. There are long scratches here that never healed. He’s unsure where they came from, though John did stitch them last night while he lost the time. He ends up wearing John’s shirt and boxers, and John must survive in just jeans.

“I can’t believe you died without underwear on,” John says at last. He snorts and wraps his arms and legs around the man he loves. They lay down on the carpet and fall into a gentle sort of rest as the sun rises.

Alexander is awoken by a sharp tug on his leash.

It’s Sam.

Samuel Seabury has always been an anomaly to Alexander. The young man was a first-year political science student at the same university Washington and George King taught at, he remembers. He was in law school by then, as were his friends, so he paid little attention to undergrads. He does recall grading papers for George’s freshmen and thinking the kid’s points were entirely parroting George’s. He quickly learned that Sam worshiped the ground his Intro to Government professor walked on. He agreed with each thing that came out of the man’s mouth. The juvenile hero-worship was almost sweet until it blossomed into a full-blown affair between a forty-year-old and an eighteen-year-old. The two of them could not hide their lingering glances, nor could Sam keep from getting hard whenever the professor reprimanded him. Alexander was sure they would be caught before the world ended, and at least solved that problem.

Sam tugs at his leash, blushing. He’s twenty-one now, all ginger hair and creamy complexion. “W-wake up, M-Mister Hamilton,” he says. “P-p-please.”

Alexander has forgotten the way the farmer’s son stutters and flinches like an abused dog. He sees how George fell for the impressionable youth. John is still asleep under him -- he can tell Sam knows what they’ve been up to. Every bit of skin the youth shows is scarlet.

“M-Mister W-Washington w-wanted me to come get you. Sorry.”

Alexander nods and gently shakes John awake. He lets Sam tug him to the hole. A problem presents itself, then: one must grip the rope with two hands, but Alexander lacks a thumb. Sam offers to hold him -- perhaps that will help, he says. He shakes his head sharply. “John,” he grunts, and submits to the humiliating haul to the top. John draws Sam up after them, and Alexander looks around.

They’re in a hallway furnished with hideous orange carpeting. Every door lining the hall is closed, and a member of their party stands in front of it. Names are written on each door. “ANGELICA AND PEGGY.” “WASHINGTON AND LAFAYETTE.” “HERCULES AND JOHN.” “THOMAS AND AARON.” “GEORGE AND SAM.”

Washington raises his eyebrows at the two of them, but says nothing. Sam quickly returns to his and George’s door, all but throwing the chain leash at John. He snuggles into George’s side with a slight whimper. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Well, my sons, I see you’ve found each other,” Washington says at length. “A bit too much of each other.”

“Did he bite you?!” Laf snaps.

“Course not,” Alexander says smoothly as he is able. “I’m -- tame. House cat.” There are muffled snickers throughout the group.

“Hamilton, you’re just as annoying dead as you are alive,” Thomas says. “Put some God damn pants on.”

“Been -- dead for a year. I don’t just -- _have_ pants.” Alexander takes a deep, rattling breath. He means to say as much as he can. “Memories are slow. Did I hate you? Feel -- like -- I did.”

Peggy giggles. Angelica covers a smirk with her hand. Even Herc cracks a smile.

“Boys, calm yourselves,” Washington says in his typical fatherly way. “Son, if you’re going to be in our party again, we need to establish some ground rules. Look -- this is how we greet the day. Everyone stands outside their apartments in an orderly manner. We make sure everyone is accounted for, and then someone makes a meal. We’ve got a chore chart.”

Alexander nods, feigns a young man at attention. He absorbs little of what Washington says, though he goes stock-still when the man says: “As for your diet...”

Everyone freezes. Lafayette clenches his fists.

“You cannot eat what we eat, I know, son. But you will not be allowed to kill if you live here. You will eat animals. You will be allowed off the leash to hunt, and you will return here when you’ve fed.” Everyone relaxes.

“And son, we keep no secrets here. The walls are thin.” He gives Sam and George a pointed look. “Levity aside, I know the obsession that drives Corpses. Your lives are built on obsession. It seems to me that John is the object of your attention. Tell me truly, son: do you really care for anyone else here?”

Damn Washington and his ability to see right to the core of a person. Alexander hems and haws, and Washington levels a gaze at him. Even dead, even a creature that puts terror in the hearts of men, he cannot lie to George Washington.

“No -- I’m _trying_. John’s everything.”

He can say nothing else. Washington gives a sagely nod, as if this was what he expected. “We’ll work on that,” he says.

 

XXX

 

And so time begins to pass, slow and sweet. The days are honey-golden and the nights full of silvery promise. Alexander tolerates the company of the others, lets himself be dragged about on a leash by each member of the party. Washington calls it a show of trust. He sleeps in the lobby, his chain tied to a couch leg to prevent escape. John is there each night. He has moved out of the apartment he shares with Hercules and instead spends most of his free time in the lobby with Alexander.

Alexander helps Aaron and Herc hunt in the woods behind the river. He uses his keen sense of smell to lead them away from Corpses and to fresh meat. They politely look away when he disembowels rabbits and dogs with his bare hands, when he stuffs with mouth with entrails and organs. When he cannot control the Hunger and he devours the animal when it is still alive.

He keeps Peggy company as she sews endless pairs of pants, patches leather jackets and flannels. He describes his experiences as a Corpse to George, who has dedicated his life to writing out the apocalypse, in a halting voice. He watches guilty as Angelica packs away the last of Eliza’s possessions.

And of course he spends time with John. His obsession has grown darker as the days pass. Each moment spent away from him feels like an impossible eternity. When Thomas lays his hand on John’s arm one night, Alexander nearly goes bezerk. John has been holding his leash loosely in one hand, though most of his attention is on Jefferson. Some story he is telling about the Before.

“And then Alex says, ‘What time is it?’ You slept for two straight days after staying up all week--” He places a hand on John’s arm. “And John here says--”

Alexander’s entire body tenses. His hands form claws and he swears he is vibrating. “Don’t,” he snarls, “touch him.”

The group goes quiet.

“Easy,” Aaron says softly. “C’mon Alex.”

Alexander snarls until Thomas withdraws his hand. “He’s _mine_ ,” he growls at the group. “Don’t -- touch him. No problems.”

That night, his chain is looped twice around the couch leg by Washington. The man suggests John stay with Herc, just for the night. John will not be moved. He undoes Alexander’s chain as soon as Washington leaves them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I can’t -- control myself.”

“That’s okay. You’re perfect. I love you.”

And just like that, Alexander’s self-control snaps in two. The possessiveness he’s been fighting against wins. With an animalistic growl, he leaps atop John, teeth inches from his exposed throat.

Pulls back suddenly. _No. No, I love him. I will not hurt him._ Still straddling the man, he clenches his fists and beats them upon the ground. He grinds his teeth together hard to keep his jaw shut. The Monster is clawing at every part of him, begging to be released. He wants to claim John, to rip and tear and make him a Corpse.

_No, God, no. Please, I don’t want that._

He’s been on edge for weeks with this diet of animals and nothing else. It’s a Corpse’s biology: they must eat human meat to survive.

He cannot tell if he wants to fuck John like an animal or rip him in two. Distantly, he realizes he’s hard form this. Sick monster. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting impulses he cannot name. “John -- _run_ ,” he rasps. His hands are shaking, his teeth chattering in his skull. He cannot breathe, cannot think.

He doesn’t think he will have the restraint to pull himself away and give John time to run. He can only hope the man will kick him off before he loses himself entirely.

And then John Laurens is kissing him, savagely, living tongue in rotting mouth. John knows he cannot feel pain, only pleasure. He bites down so hard he draws blood, laps it up, bites harder. He knots his firsts in Alexander’s hair and grinds against him desperately. They shed their clothes quickly. Alexander scratches deep grooves into John’s back. The taller man muffles a howl into his shoulder. Their kisses are sloppy, do-or-die.

He works John open quickly and without mercy. There is no time to worship the freckles he so loves, no time to tell this man he is an entire universe, a capital-H Him. The only God Alexander Hamilton will ever believe in.

Instead, he thrusts his fingers in and out of John, feasts on his whimpers. He lines himself up with the man’s fluttering entrance and bottoms out in one thrust. John wails. He plows into him savagely, biting into his shoulder. The tight heat is intoxicating. He sinks his teeth in deeper, feels them meet around John’s flesh. He tears the chunk from John’s shoulder, ignoring the quiet whimpers below him, and suckles at the blood there like some sort of beast.

He pistons his hips harder, hits something within John that makes him squeal. He shifts his hips to hit that spot over and over again. John comes with a sobbing, shuddering gasp, and Alexander follows him soon after.

They lie there, panting, as Alexander realizes he’s been holding a piece of his lover’s flesh between his teeth this entire time. He cannot stop himself from swallowing it.

Clarity rushes in as he pulls out and sees the whimpering mess of a man bleeding below him.

“Oh -- God,” Alexander sobs. “John, please. I’m sorry -- I’m so sorry -- why didn’t -- you run?” John says nothing, just lies there on his stomach, breathing. Slowly, the man turns over, cocks his head.

His eyes are a striking shade of red and each laceration has slowed its bleeding to a sluggish pace. The blood is blackish and thick.

John groans softly, then begins to growl and snarl. He scratches at the bandages on Alexander’s body, the ones he changes so caringly every day, though the injuries will never heal. Alexander helps John remove his wrappings and stares at him out of one eye.

John grins with bloody teeth. He tries to speak, but seems to find it difficult. Instead, he grunts and strokes Alexander’s cheek. His fingers end up in the mangled mess of skin-and-teeth that half of his face is, but he shows no disgust. The emotion is displays is more of a childlike delight.

“John,” Alexander says softly. “You’re...Corpse.” He is at a loss for words.

“Alex,” John says evenly. “I’m -- Corpse.”

The two of them collapse into delirious giggles.

“What if -- we ate -- Jeff’son?” John manages.

“Laf’d shoot.”

“What if -- we ate -- ‘em all?”

Alexander grins viciously. He feels the Monster rise within him, but has no desire to tamp it down. “Nothin’ I’d like more.”

XXX

The group of Corpses wanders aimlessly along the riverbank. Two women compare their wounds, competing for whose is worse. A man with his hair piled in a messy bun proudly announces his heart has been torn out, so he must win. A man with his short hair hidden under a bandanna cuffs the Corpse with the bun, then wraps his arms around him. They laugh.

The winter sun shines down upon the party. Their Monsters have risen, as has their eloquence. They may be a group of slaughtering demons, but they will be damned if they’re not intelligent.

They’re family, you see.

Towards the back of the group, past a stoic and bald young man conversing quietly with a stoic and bald older man, past a wild-haired man bragging about his arm -- “Ripped -- from socket, Herc!” --, past a couple stuck to one another’s sides in life and death, Alexander and John watch their family.

“Teach ‘em,” Alexander offers. “How to hunt.”

“Let’s go, love,” John says, baring his teeth. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also, Lord forgive me. 
> 
> Please feel free to come bother me on my tumblr: tomboyazelma. I'd love to chat, become friends, or accept any and all prompts!


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